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This story was originally published by Free Spirit “Speak of the Devil” Anthology. The casting director guided the girl with glasses in the wheelchair down the hallway of Cavern Studios. “You’ll want to get a snack and a coffee in the breakroom, where you meet the other actors,” he insisted. “Filming for the next slasher movie begins in fifteen minutes.” The girl with thick glasses reached out to get the door, but a gangly kid with a wild mop of black hair held it open. “Hi,” he said with a voice cracking. “I’m Guy Hopkins. Welcome to our only interlude from dying today.” ### The girl in the wheelchair looked around the room to see an ivory refrigerator covered with death notices. There was a messy microwave, a coffeemaker that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the days of Juan Valdez, and a half-consumed jar of peanut butter. There was also an oven and stovetop covered with a few kernels of popcorn. A dull fluorescent light above gave the room the look of a creepy sanitarium. To her left, a guy with too much gel slicking back his brown hair gave her a thumbs up. He was wearing a letterman jacket from the local college. Next to him, a cheerleader in the same school colors had her head buried in an issue of the National Enquirer.  She gave a wave without breaking concentration from the tabloid. “That’s Rusty Nailor,” Guy pointed to the muscular kid in the letterman jacket. “All-Conference at everything, including the first to be killed in every slasher flick. Next to him is his girlfriend, Suzanne Copy, head cheerleader, who currently leads the school in the number of times being kidnapped.” She rolled her eyes, then showed her wrists, the only blemishes on her otherwise perfect skin. “And what’s your character?” the girl in the wheelchair asked the guy who opened the door for her. “Everyone calls him ‘Hot Pocket,’” Rusty explained. “Why?” “Because in high school, my mom packed them in my Scooby-Doo lunch box. I’m always spending my lunchtime looking for a working microwave on campus,” Guy said. Suzanne put down her tabloid after having circled her horoscope. “He’s the goofy sidekick to either the hero or the ‘last girl’ heroine, hon.” “Except I never make it to the end,” Hot Pocket whined. “I’ve been killed in these films so many times that I think it’s illegal to sell me life insurance anymore.” “In other words,” Suzanne explained. “We’re the slasher film victim archetypes.” ### Rusty stood up. “They’ve got us all typecast. And they own our contracts, so we can’t get out of here.” Suzanne pointed to the doors. “The director, Warren Cavern, has guards who won’t let us leave the set of the films. So we’re stuck here physically, as well as financially.” Hot Pocket groaned. “We keep getting killed off on stage, but he uses dark magic to bring us back to life every time. It’s like that movie Groundhog Day , if it took place on Halloween or Friday the 13th.” The girl with glasses gasped. “So I’m stuck here?” All nodded in reply. Rusty stood up. “But, you know, I’m more than just a man of strength, speed, and stamina. My real dream is to perform on Broadway, singing classic show tunes.” Suzanne and Hot Pocket put their hands up to their ears a second before the jock broke into a rendition of “Memory” from Cats, sung out of tune, along with an unnecessary key change. The girl with glasses quickly covered her ears as well. The cheerleader took her hands away from her ears once her boyfriend finished and started combing her hair. “I’m not just about being pretty and perky all of the time. I’ve got a dream too. I want to start a church camp where I direct the kid campers in morality plays. I want them to make the right decisions when they go to high school.” “Yeah,” Rusty laughed. “And not get drunk and make out with me after skinny…” “Shut up, Rusty!” she snapped. Hot Pocket jumped in. “I know I’m always joking around, but I’ve got big plans too. I want to be a game show host, like Bob Barker, Alex Trebek, or my favorite: Steve Harvey!” “He does like to joke around a lot,” the jock noted. “Yeah,” Hot Pocket replied. “I’ve been killed so many times in slasher films that I think I qualify as an honorary red shirt.” Suzanne gave him a side-eye. “What do you mean by red shirt? You always wear blue.” “It’s a Star Trek thing, I think,” Rusty guessed. Hot Pocket ignored them. “So who are you?” The girl with glasses in a wheelchair gave a nasal-sounding giggle. “I’m Marie Lovelace, named for two leading scientists, Marie Curie and Ada Lovelace. In high school, I won the science fair, the spelling bee, and the award for most hospitalizations for accidents. Just clumsy, I guess.” “Well, welcome to hell,” Rusty sighed. He pulled back his jacket to show stitches around  his neck. “I’ve had more injuries in these films than in my football-playing days.” Hot Pocket pulled up his t-shirt to reveal a myriad of surgeries. “I’ve had more organ repairs than a cathedral.” “No offense” Marie smiled. “But I’m the brain, so when I’m out there in the slasher movies, I’m going to outsmart the villain, or at least not fall into his traps.” “Good luck,” the cheerleader offered. ### 28 days later, Marie joined her fellow archetypes in the breakroom for another coffee break.  “Speak of the devil….How’s that outsmarting thing going?” Hot Pocket asked, eating a handful of Green M&Ms. The brain in the wheelchair sighed. “You’d think my I.Q. would make a difference, but no. Every time, the slasher wins.” “Warren Cavern writes all these scripts, so he decides who lives or dies,” Rusty the jock explained. “You can’t live through one of his horror flicks unless he allows it.” “I think he’s acting out his pathetic high school angst,” Suzanne opined. “Got bullied by the jocks and turned down by cheerleaders like me for dates to prom. Plus, he wasn’t as extroverted as guys like Hot Pocket. He kills us off to get even.” “Wait,” Marie held up her hand. “Can’t live through one of his horror flicks,” she repeated Rusty’s words. “That gives me an idea. What’s the schedule of movies that we have to shoot tomorrow?” Hot Pocket moved to the newest addition, a room with a small TV with streaming options—and hit a button on the remote. Don LaFontaine, the male voice from countless film previews, began his dramatic synopsis. “When angry parents killed Frankie, a corporate executive for marketing dangerous toys, they unleashed ‘The Nightmare on Wall Street,’ where this killer slays unsuspecting kids watching television with deadly subliminal advertising.” Only Hot Pocket laughed. Red-faced, he pushed the fast-forward button. A woman sounding like Nicole Kidman provided the chilling overview. “Tuesday the 26th is twice as unlucky for these Space Camp boys and girls when Justin Boorhes, an astronaut trainee who died in a tragic centripetal machine accident, exacts his revenge upon counselors and children alike.” Everyone looked at each other as if to say: “Is this for real?” Hot Pocket pressed the button, and the next preview was queued up. Michael Pena, of Ant-Man movie fame, gave his rapid-fire description. “Based on a college student film project, the scariest horror film of the summer features Fiberface stalking his victims in the desert with a deadly weapon in The New Mexico Weed Whacker Massacre .” Everyone’s jaws dropped, stunned into silence. Hot Pocket shrugged and hit another button. Keith David, the deep voice from Batman: The Animated Series fame, introduced the last film. “Arbor Day will never be the same as the ghost of lumberjack Mark Mayers uses his axes and saws to target teens camping on their spring break in Pisgah Forest …” Marie took the remote away and shut off the television. “Good God, is anyone going to watch this shlock?” Rusty shrugged. “Guess so.” “Slasher flicks sell, or they’d never make twenty Saw  films.” Hot Pocket pointed out. “You know, I was reading in Psychology Today  where Dr. Aloysius Hardee speculates that people compensate for misery in their life by watching popular entertainment where others suffer even more,” Suzanne stated. All looked at her with greater shock than they did for the film previews.   “What?” Marie waved off the cheerleader’s comment. “While I was in surgery for the tenth time this week, I got an idea about how we can get out of dying in these films by flipping the script and escaping this personal hell Warren Cavern has us in, contractually. And we’ll do it with each of your special secret skills and dreams.” “How?” Hot Pocket wondered aloud. Marie pulled out a notebook with no shortage of scribbling in it. “I’ve been working it out. Here’s our plan.” ### The scene opened with Rusty staggering into his dorm room, football uniform still on. He slumped into a chair, turned on the television, and stared at it as if hypnotized. Frankie appeared on screen and rubbed his hands together, ready to work his subliminal magic. “You want to go buy a set of Ginsu Steak Knives and stab yourself with all of them,” the cruel businessman commanded. At that moment, Rusty sprang from the comfy chair and sang out dramatically. “Why must I be stuck Watching the T.V. box? When I could play With the other jocks!” He pranced around the room while Frankie stared at him open-mouthed. “What the hell are you doing?” the evil corporate executive snarled from the TV. “You’re supposed to die watching me.” The athlete continued to pirouette and sing “Whatever do you mean? You poor dumb slob? Nobody dies in a musical Unless it’s Les Misérables!” Frankie tried to scream out from the television tube but found himself instead singing “The lyrics are so bad And the plot is worse. I can’t really kill you Or even so much as curse!”  Frankie groaned, trapped in an endless song-and-dance spoof of his own slasher movie. ### Along the windswept desert sands, Fiberface stalked his pretty target. I’ll tie her up, gag her with her scarf, and torture her with my trusty weedwhacker , he thought, as she approached a low ridge. He carefully uncoiled the rope. It would be all too easy . But as he rushed forward to bind her, she spun around and deftly dodged him. Fiberface tripped over a rock, fell in a tangle of ropes, and rolled to the base of the ridge. As the slasher struggled with the bonds, Suzanne waved over several children to the top of the short ridge, which served as a sitting place for an impromptu lecture. “Good afternoon, children,” the cheerleader sang out. “Today we’re going to talk about good choices and bad choices. Mr. Fiberface here tried to kidnap me. Is that a good choice, or a bad choice?” A little girl’s hand shot up quickly. “It’s a bad choice. You could go to jail for that.” “That’s right, little Kimmie. It can get you several years in prison, depending on which state you’re in. And in New Mexico, they tack on another ten years if you torture the victim.” The children nodded in unison.  “And do you know what, kids? I looked at the script ahead of time. It turns out his older sister used to tie him up while she was babysitting him for trying to sneak out of the house.” Fiberface grunted, trying to free himself from the ropes to no avail. “What should Mr. Fiberface do, instead of kidnapping young ladies?” Suzanne asked her class. The students looked stumped until one little boy named Randy raised his hand slowly. “Maybe he could talk with his older sister, and work out their problems with words, not bad choices.” “That’s right!” Suzanne beamed. She reached over and placed a gold star on boy’s head. Randy smiled. Fiberface vainly tried turning on the weedwhacker to get out of his bindings, but it merely sputtered and failed to start. “Gee—having performance issues today, aren’t we, Mr. Fiberface?” Suzanne cooed. “You can’t get me in an ‘ABC After School Special.’ Didn’t you know that?” The slasher groaned while the cheerleader continued. “When Mr. Fiberface was in third grade, Miss Brown gave him a D+ on his art project. And that made him mad. Children, what should he have done, instead of getting angry?” Fiberface screamed in agony. Now he was the one experiencing torture. ### Mark Mayers strode down the hallway, where he just knew that geeky sidekick was cowering. The last door on the left was sure to produce his next victim, he thought. He flung open the door, shocked to see a soundstage set up like a game show, complete with a live studio audience clapping in unison. “Well, if it isn’t Mark Mayers, the Arbor Day slasher,” the host, Hot Pocket, announced into the microphone. “He’s our final contestant on the game show ‘Holiday Specials.’” Mayers headed toward his target on stage swinging his axe. The crowd gasped, until the blade flew off the handle and bounced harmlessly off a fire exit sign. The audience responded with a classic laugh track. “It seems Mr. Mayers doesn’t know the rules of the game,” the plucky sidekick laughed. “You can’t kill someone on a game show, especially the host!” Three burly security guards marched the lumberjack down to the front row, in front of a monitor. “Since our Arbor Day slasher doesn’t know the rules of the game, I’ll explain them,” Hot Pocket grinned. “You post a bid on the item we showcase, and the contestant with the bid closest to the actual price, without going over, wins. The winner must then answer four trivia questions to win the grand prize.” The game show host looked up to the control booth. “Johnny, what is the item up for bidding?” “Well, Guy, I mean ‘Hot Pocket,’” the announcer laughed. “It’s a Whirlpool Washing Machine, which holds four cubic feet, has up to twelve wash cycles, and a smooth spiral stainless steel wash basket.” “Great for washing those blood-splattered linens,” Hot Pocket added. “Our four contestants have me so scared that my goosebumps flew south for the winter.” The audience roared with canned laughter. “Pinhead, will you start the bidding?” the show host began. The villain from the film Hellraiser  snarled “I’m The Hell Priest and Lead Cenobite, if you don’t mind, sir. And I’ll bid $762 for the washing machine.” “And how about you, Mr. Ghostface?” the host asked. The black-hooded character with the white mask, from the movie Scream  looked up, then down, and then typed “$595.” “Excellent,” Hot Pocket clapped his hands. “And ‘Chucky,’ what’s your bid?” The doll from Child’s Play  laughed. “Friends ‘til the End! $596!” In a flash, Ghostface drew a knife and stabbed Chucky in the head. The doll responded with a laugh. “Can’t keep a good guy down!” He gave his classic toothy grin. Hot Pocket looked down the row at the final contestant. “And, Mark Mayers, what will you bid for the washing machine?” Mayers angrily punched several buttons on his keyboard. “$625, I see,” Hot Pocket read the numbers. “The actual retail price is $666. Mister Mark Mayers, you win the washing machine.” Cheers and loud claps erupted from the studio audience. Mayers stormed onto the stage but tripped going up. He fell on his hacksaw, snapping the wood, making the would-be weapon useless. The serial killer groaned. “Now, now, Mr. Mayers.” Hot Pocket wagged his finger. “Focus on what you could win if you get all four answers right. Johnny, what’s our grand prize?” The announcer barked “An all-expenses-paid vacation to the Pacific Northwest! This trip includes stops at Redwood National Park in California, Olympic National Forest in Washington, and The Enchanted Forest in British Columbia!” Mayers’ hands went from trying to repair the hacksaw to clapping in glee. “All you need to do is answer four trivia questions about a holiday. And in your honor, Mr. Mayers, that holiday is Arbor Day!” The Arbor Day slasher danced with glee, rubbing his hands together. “First question, Mr. Mayers, is this: What does Arbor Day honor?” Mayers’ guttural tone followed.  “That’s right: trees!” Hot Pocket exclaimed. “Next question: What month is Arbor Day celebrated in America?” Again, Mayers grunted his reply. “You are correct, Mr. Mayers,” the game show host replied. “It’s April. Perhaps you’re smarter than a fifth grader!” The Arbor Day slasher snarled something and made a move toward Hot Pocket, who retreated. “My mistake. You are  smarter than a fifth grader. Now, for the third question, who was the Pisgah Forest Killer last Arbor Day?” Mayers proudly pointed to himself.  “That gives you three correct questions, sir.” Hot Pocket announced into the mic to the cheering crowd. “Last question: Who was the President of the United States when Arbor Day was first celebrated in America?” A hush fell over the audience. Mark Mayers frantically paced the stage. Finally, he grunted three times to Hot Pocket, who replied “Rutherford B. Hayes? Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Mayers. It’s actually Ulysses S. Grant. So close.” An enraged Arbor Day slasher brought out his bucksaw, but the metal blade clattered to the stage. “Oh, did that blade rust?” Hot Pocket’s mock pathos showed through. “Should have used Rust-Oleum, one of our corporate sponsors. Because ‘Rust Never Sleeps.’ But Johnny, what do we have for Mr. Mayers in addition to the washing machine?” The announcer’s voice boomed. “Well, Mr. Mayers. You’ve just won the home version of the game ‘Holiday Specials.’ And you’ve also won a box of Rice-a-Roni.” “It’s the San Francisco treat!” Hot Pocket added. “Oh, and Mr. Mayers, you’ll have plenty of time to play the game—in prison. That’s because the FBI and North Carolina State Patrol are here to arrest you, given that you confessed to the Pisgah Forest Massacre on camera. As for our television and studio audience, join us next week when we look at our next holiday: National Ice Cream Day!” ### On the set of the last film, a man in a flannel jacket, grey jeans, and black boots, wearing an astronaut helmet, crept up on several unsuspecting teens wearing light blue Space Camp t-shirts and white shorts. The silence was broken by Marie’s voice, in a faux British accent, announcing. “Here, on this week’s episode of ‘Mutual of Orlando’s Wild Killers,’ we begin on a Tuesday, the 26th, where we see Justin Boorhes, our predator, sporting an astronaut helmet, as he approaches his targets.” The serial killer waved his hands frantically and then gave the universal signal for silence with a single finger.  “And now, the would-be killer appears to be putting up a single finger for where his mouth should be, clearly not wanting me to alert his prey,” Marie continued. “Oh wait—now he’s giving me another finger, one much closer to the middle.” The kids in Space Camp t-shirts began to look behind themselves, where Justin Boorhes was trying to shush Marie. “Now Justin is making what appears to be a throat-slashing maneuver,” Marie documented from her wheelchair. “Yes, yes, you want to kill, you apex predator you.” From within the astronaut helmet came a mighty groan. “Ah yes, Justin’s quarry has heard the serial killer’s cries of dismay, and these space campers are now running away to safety,” Marie added happily. While the Tuesday the 26th killer switched his focus, the show’s host told the television audience “Now Justin has shifted his attention to me. But what he does not realize is the fact that one typically can’t kill the narrator in a documentary.” As if on cue, Justin tripped over a root, slamming to the ground. His astronaut helmet flew off. Shaking his head, dazed, the serial killer had just enough time to look up and gasp before the wheelchair slammed into him full force, knocking him unconscious. “Oops!” Marie apologized. “Blast these wheelchair controls!” ### When the four congregated back at the film studio’s breakroom, there were hugs and high fives to go around. Each related how they defeated their respective slashers. “I wonder if this means we’re free of our binding contracts?” Suzanne wondered aloud. “There’s one way to find out,” Rusty reasoned. He pushed open the side door to the break room. Security guards normally posted to block their exit had vanished. Slowly, the four archetypes crept down the hallway, past studio offices and board rooms, until they reached the control room. Inside, they found a figure slumped over the controls. “Speak of the devil, it’s Warren Cavern,” Rusty announced. “It looks like he’s sleeping.” As they crept forward, Suzanne let out a scream. “His head’s exploded, man,” Hot Pocket gasped. “I’ve heard of blowing a gasket, but this is ridiculous.” “It appears he spontaneously combusted,” Marie observed. “Or at least his head did.” Hot Pocket held his hand over his chest. “Our film productions were so bad that they killed him.”  “Guess that means we don’t have to be in any more slasher flicks,” Suzanne sighed with relief. “What do we do now?” “Let’s celebrate!” Hot Pocket threw his hands in the air. “Hey.” Rusty tapped the side of his head. “I know a great place by the lake. There’s a summer camp there.” “Yeah!” Suzanne beamed. “We can stop by ABC Liquors for beer and rum.” Marie frowned. “But is that safe?” Rusty patted her head. “Sure, Marie. That camp’s abandoned, so we won’t be chased off by any cops or camp counselors.” Hot Pocket laughed. “Besides, nobody believes in those legends about cryptids in the woods around the lake.” Born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and raised in El Paso, Texas, John A. Tures began writing sports for the El Paso Herald-Post. In college, he worked for a radio station. He worked his way through graduate school in education outreach for the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra. He earned his doctorate in political science at Florida State University, analyzed data on international politics in Washington DC, and is now a professor at LaGrange College in Georgia. He writes columns for a number of newspapers and magazines and has published more than a dozen short stories in various genres, from thrillers and mysteries to nonfiction and flash fiction.

There were pills beneath the sink; crowding the bathroom countertop, fallen behind the toilet, swept under the rugs. When did Katherine get so many prescriptions? Could it be that she always had them?  Katelyn scoured the bottles for another name - any indication that her sister might have been using, abusing, and recklessly popping blue and white and yellow tablets that hadn’t been prescribed  directly to her. Except they had. All of them. On every single bottle,  printed in that same goddamn Verdana font, there it was: Katherine Rose Conner . She had been named after their mother. Not Katelyn – Katelyn was named as an afterthought in a poor mimicry of her sister, after she’d been a surprise second birth – but Katherine . Katherine had been named Katherine Rose born to Rose Katherine, and Katelyn, who had apparently been undetectable on the ultrasound thanks to an alarming position behind her sister in the ovular sack of the womb, was born as a last minute ‘happy surprise’ for the doctor and Rose Katherine both, the latter of which must have been so in shock that the best thing she could think to name her second daughter was Katelyn Peony Conner, so that Katelyn could grow up not only being mistaken as Katherine, but sharing the same goddamn nickname, to boot. Rose Katherine Conner, who’d not only birthed a daughter with her looks and intellectual charm and vibrancy for life, but who had also passed on her short tempered rampant emotional outbursts and overbearing mental illness. Apparently this existence required more prescription pills than Katelyn ever knew a doctor could write to one singular person. Especially one who weighed a hefty 115 lbs soaking wet, as her sister did.  If Katelyn had a daughter someday, she was going to name her something entirely abstract and as unrelated to the ‘Kate [insert flower name] Conner’ formula their mother had devised as possible. Perhaps something like Sunny. Or Aphrodite. Or Carolyn. “Do you know what milligram of valium your sister was on?” Katelyn looked up from where she’d knelt on the carpet, plucking a spilled bottle of singular pink, trapezoidal tablets off of the shag rug and trying not to grow frustrated at how each pill was accompanied by a fingertip full of white coils that would cling to her skin and inevitably wind up on her tongue the next time she went to touch her face, as all loose synthetic fiber had a way of doing. “No,” She answered her fiance, William, who stood in the doorway holding three different prescription bottles in his hand, “The highest available dose?” “I’ve got a two, a five, and a ten?” “What’s the most recently prescribed one?” “She crossed out the dates.”  Katherine had done that with all of the bottles. Because part of Katherine’s fucked-up-ness meant she had an innate disgust for odd numbers, number patterns that weren’t ‘soothing’, and any number she’d ever seen while standing on a scale ever in her entire life.  Katelyn knew this because she’d had to hear about these repulsive compulsions every time Katherine saw one of said disgusting numbers over the last decade.  “How many is left in each bottle?” Katelyn asked. “None.” “Then we’ll assume she took the valium with her.”  2.  Was Katherine really better at everything she did, or was it just that their mother had budgeted for one daughter and had decided that the one who’d had the decency to show up on the ultrascan monitors,  and to be born first should be the recipient of the funds intended to be applied to piano lessons, tennis coaches, ballet recitals and private academic tutors for one? Since Katelyn was tapping the heaviest vein - was Katherine’s fucked-up-ness a result of genetic predisposition or was it just that their mother had overwhelmed her developing mind with piano lessons, tennis coaches, ballet recitals and private academic tutors for one?  If the former, Katelyn felt pity that she hadn’t been selected in the russian roulette of Conner mental illness. If the latter, Katelyn was grateful that her mother hadn’t seen enough potential in her.  “Does any of this look familiar?” Katelyn shifted to the edge of the passenger seat, looking out the front windshield as the car navigated along the narrow back road leading out to the row of lake cabins they’d summered at as children. “No. Wait, yes - that tree looks familiar-” “The tree?” William didn’t seem convinced by her timber-oriented cartography. “We used to see who could climb the highest as children. I think that’s one of the trees… Oh, yes, there-” Katelyn pointed to their left, where an old dirt driveway had been recently uncovered from the thicket that had overgrown it. “That’s it. Turn here.” “You’re sure?” “Positive.” William turned. There were tire tracks already laid in the mud. That was a good sign! Twenty years since they’d been to the lake house; since their father had the car wreck and their mother had a blind date with the fish,  salamander, and algae that inhabited the lake. No one would have come this way since then, seeing as Katherine fired all of the cleaners and said ‘fuck you’ to the real estate leeches trying to convince her to sell the property their mother left in her name. If someone had traversed this terrain recently, it had to be Katherine. 3.  Katherine’s clothes were scattered around the home; crowding the dusty oak floorboards, tile countertops, and the sofa that creaked beneath the weight of Katelyn’s knees as she knelt upon the center of it to reach for a stray bra that her sister had flung over the left arm. Katelyn didn’t need to hold the bra up to her chest to know it was the same 32B size as the one she wore, because Katherine had developed in all the same ways as she had down to the width of their areolas, a fact that Katelyn had been forced to learn two years prior when Katherine had stripped herself naked in a doped-up haze while Katelyn guided her to bed and rolled her onto her side.  Perhaps if Katherine had let Katelyn go first for a change, they wouldn’t be in this mess.  Maybe Katelyn should feel more guilt for not trying to carry more of her sister's load. She wasn’t ignorant to the fact that Katherine was succumbing under the weight of it all. She used to sit for seconds and minutes and hours just thinking about how Katherine’s vibrancy was dulling. She knew good and damn well how many pills Katherine was on, that the variation was so similar to the ones they’d cleaned out of their mother’s bathroom cabinet after she’d decided to cradle a cinder block underwater, that Katelyn should have foreseen how Katherine’s  path to success was leading her down the same route out of those dusty double glass doors facing the foggy lake.  “I can’t find her anywhere!” William shouted from the doorway, panic rising in his voice. Katelyn both hated and loved him for that panic. Even he was inclined to fawn over Katherine.  “She’s not here,” Katelyn told him. It was true. Katherine was long gone. “I’ve tried to call the police. It’s not going through!” “There’s no service out this far.” “What do we do?” “Go into town.” “That’s twenty minutes away-” “You’ll get service.” “Aren’t you coming?” “No. I’ll wait here in case she comes back.” “What do I tell the police?” “That Katherine Rose Conner is a danger to herself. Take the empty pill bottles.”  William nodded, grabbed his coat and hurried out the front door of the lake house without further argument, believing himself to be doing something helpful. Katelyn was left alone. It was funny, actually. She’d never been alone before. Not since the moment she was conceived. All her life, she’d had Katherine to hide behind, letting her sister take the fall for being so goddamn extraordinary while Katelyn got to settle for the shadows. And now here she was. No one to shield her. No one to outshine her. No one to take her fucking nickname.  Katherine hadn’t been easy, but she’d been Katelyn’s cross to bear. Who was she without her sister to compare herself to? 4.  Katelyn took three of the pills; blue and white and yellow in succession, because they worked for her sister, whose body was close enough in height and weight and chemical composition to Katelyn’s own for anything that she had ingested to have a similar effect on her. The clothes she pulled on, bra and t-shirt and skirt, fit her to a tee because they had been measured to cinch onto a form identical to hers.  Then she walked, stepping into the identical footprints Katherine left in the mud surrounding the cabin, to the lake’s edge, where their fathers ashes were scattered and their mother had sank beneath the surface of and where Katherine herself had seemingly vanished into. Katelyn clambered into the cold, ignoring the chattering of her teeth, until the salty water overtook her taste buds as the winter wind moved the ripples across her chin.  As she floated in the center of the ovular lake she thought, not for the first time, how unfair it was for Katherine Rose Conner to leave her behind.  Antheia is a poet and fiction writer born and raised in Eastern Kentucky. She is currently obtaining an MFA in Creative Writing from Mount Saint Mary's University.

I am tired of burning down we are a library of ignited people, look how all of our pages curl from the heat, smoldering embers of suspicion shot across bus-stop-cum-battlefield everything is up in flames,  look how the tips of conversations blaze and dance, casting shadows on the walls behind us, words like molotov cocktails thrown in among the shelves look how we all turn to cinders, alexandrian destruction of ourselves, ages of community gone up in so much  smoke, pick through the rubble looking  for the spines of half-burned connections everyone's committing arson but I am tired of burning down important and in a hundred thousand homes in a hundred thousand beds we were rotting, flesh dripping from our bones reflected in a hundred thousand tiny screens, eyes pouring from our heads like warm jelly,  sprouting stalks of mighty  fungus from our ears, air yellow with the mass of our spores [did you see… I have to show you… listen to this…] and we all had our subscriptions to Decomposing Weekly, and we kept pace with all the latest updates on which color of decay was IN this season [I wouldn't be caught dead in that shade of putrescence in 2025] and we all gossiped about whose  carcass looked the best at the latest big Hollywood soiree  [did you hear that her nose fell off on the red carpet? what a scandal] and we all wagged our rancid jawbones and felt very much like we were doing something IMPORTANT MISSING yesterday we went  round the neighborhood and posted  advertisements reading [MISSING:  LOST HOURS  LOOKS LIKE  AN UNFINISHED  ART PROJECT REWARD $100] on the bus stops and the lampposts, absolutely everywhere that we could  find the space then we waited, obediently by the telephone for someone to call but nobody rang and when we went to check and see what happened, we discovered they were covered up with others saying things like [HELP! LOST CHILDHOOD… HAVE YOU SEEN MY YESTERDAY?... WANTED: ALL OF THE 90's] all with rewards and  contact numbers seems somebody could probably make a decent living finding all those missing hours Malachy Moran is an American expat currently residing in Norway. A PTSD survivor and recovering drug addict, Malachy has lived too many lives already to believe in reincarnation. Hopefully this is it. His work is available in Rattle: Poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic and many others. Follow his journey on Bluesky @malformed-poetry

You knocked on my door that morning holding an empty gasoline can and asked to borrow some milk. I told you I bought by the quart, but you said that was OK, you weren’t going that far anyway. Then later on the back porch, you taught me how to pray to your body with roses and a mask. You asked to stay, persistently pleading. That night, you made my chest move an inch inwards so that my heart couldn’t beat as fully and my lungs couldn’t expand. You wrapped a ribbon around my head and tied it with a bow so I couldn’t speak. You bound my hands in prayer. You put tiny teardrops of glue in my eyes so I could no longer see. You tightly wrapped a corset around me like a brace so that I would stay straight. You put me inside a bed of feathers, stitched me up, and said to wait. You sang me a lullaby about a bracelet of brambles so I could sleep. In the morning you were gone and my house was packed with gallons of milk jugs, but I knew I’d been emptied of everything. Tom Busillo’s (he/his) writing has appeared on McSweeney’s, PANK, and Unbroken, among others, with additional work forthcoming in Calliope. When he's not writing, he likes playing acoustic guitar and attempting to sing Leonard Cohen and Magnetic Fields songs.  He lives in Philadelphia, PA.

Text I Will Never Send Something strange happened today. I was rotting in bed, my favorite pastime since we—ceased. The buzzing warmth of a budding spring flowed through my open windows. In an instant, the bustle of Los Angeles was swallowed by a forest of Japanese greenery.  Everything fell quiet.  The only sound was the crackle of gravel under my feet, each step pulling me further into curious repose.  Among Tokyo’s chaos, blaring billboards overlooking busy crossings and throttling throngs of tourists on Takeshita Street, the wisdom of the trees created stillness. And a chill. The cold air clamped to the bare skin of my pale cheeks. Then I saw you. Sitting at a metal table, drinking blue beer. Tension grew in my shoulders, my desperate gaze settled on your ever-changing eyes—currently pitch black, dark and hard. Two lumps of coal. Two freezing blackholes. I only ever see you in these flashes now, my mind won’t dare bring you to me in a dream. For there is no better way to ensure I never wake up. Text I Actually Did Send I miss you.  I’ve been writing poems lately to channel my emotions, specifically to channel them away from the sympathetic ears of my friends.  None of the poems are very good, linguistically or thematically, because they’re all dripping with one-note sadness. The imagery is usually violent and the turn is always something like “Without you I want to die!” which is a tad melodramatic. I want so desperately to make the break up funny. Maybe if I declared, “I’m done with you!” and turned away and slipped on a banana peel, that would make it funny. Or if you said, “You take everything so personally,” and then a meteor fell from the sky and hit you in the nuts, that would make it funny. Or if we had break up sex and nine months later I gave birth to a dolphin. That would at least be weird, a major improvement over the many weeks of pungent depression I’m currently experiencing.  But, thanks to the fact that people don’t know you’ve been crying if you do it in the shower, the only stink here is desperation. I really miss you. But I also don’t want to see you right now. I just needed to shout into the blackhole that is your inbox, so I know you’re aware that I still exist. I thought of another one! What if I took an hour to craft this message, and spent another twenty minutes with my thumb hesitating over the send button, only for you to have blocked my number? That would make it funny. Oh wait, I forgot the part where the locomotive hits me and my head goes boi-oi-oi-oi-oing . Marissa Padilla is a writer residing in Los Angeles. She/they gravitates towards humor writing, though she can crank out a sad poem when the mood strikes. She attended Northwestern University, where she majored in Theatre with a focus in Playwriting.  When she isn’t writing, Marissa can be found aggressively avoiding eye contact with people on LA’s streets and sidewalks.

Savior fantasies are considered bad.  It's not your place  to save anyone. But all I want is  someone to want  to save me. It shouldn't matter  that they can't. Ewen Glass (he/him) is a screenwriter and poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise and lots of self-doubt; his poetry has appeared in the likes of Okay Donkey, Maudlin House, HAD, Poetry Scotland and Ex-Puritan. His debut chapbook ‘The Art of Washing What You Can't Touch’ is published by Alien Buddha Press.

pages fluttering back and forth: cleaved fairy wings, cracked down the spine when i was eleven and living for the sweet burst of albany peaches in my uncle’s backyard. to become a woman was to swallow that childhood, push it down and make space for the weight of my mother’s resentment for her lost job, hatred for her mother-in-law, leftover anger from arguing with my father. in her image, i drew a crack down my chest to let out my smaller self, with her magic wandmonkey bars. soft glow of swingset evenings overcascade view. sucking on bitter peach pits,the aftertaste of childhood. and when fall came, i draped my mother’s old overcoat on my shoulders: all her grief settling over me. Sirjana Kaur is an Indian-American writer from Redmond, Washington. A 2024 National Student Poets Program Semifinalist, her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, Eunoia Review, and Hot Pot Magazine. She's a lover of crosswords, cappuccinos, and the em dash.

“Been slow.” Within the TV commercial extra world, Howie’s resemblance to a nursing home resident had been a disadvantage. Eyebrow, nose and ear hair were thickets.          “Gary’s on almost every job. Even when he doesn’t fit the specs.” Stewie, plump blueberry shape, steamed.          “Thanks, to Jen.” Me—a five-head, maybe, six; swimming caps out of the question—stated the obvious. But the collective anger was real. Lifers, we’d been super professional; early to set, great wardrobe—sometimes still in dry cleaning plastic—never shirking the job. Extreme weather conditions, on our feet hours at a time, rushing back to our starting marks, drives to distant, unfamiliar locations… whatever was called for. But Screen Actors Guild jobs were being lost to non-union extras; their day rate cheaper. Though a rough-looking contingent, as though grabbed off the street, and clueless, dropped on sets, or part of a prison work-release program. Unkempt, they wore ill-fitting clothes and lacked decent haircuts. These deranged misfits were fabled for sleeping in their cars during shoots, stripping craft services tables blind, and at risk of the police conducting a sweep for outstanding warrants and being stuffed, hand over head, into squad cars. Their presence resembled scenes straight out of The Wire . Except, instead of violent Baltimore drug-dealers, contingents of Russians, comic-con attendees who’d live with their parents well into middle age, and those off their meds prevailed. Fortunately, their attendance was mostly limited to large crowd scenes. And yet, Gary, connected, fine, was racking up enemies by the job.          An occasional principal, Gary acted like he was slumming, being an extra. As if, doing us a favor, gracing us with his presence. You’d walk past, say ‘Hello,’ and he’d stare straight ahead, ignoring you. In this close-knit community, a definite no-no. Oh… and haughty.          His greatest offense? Pontificating. Acting like the Master of Ceremonies, constantly making quips. Extras usually continued to talk, even when told not to. But Gary took it to another level. Holding conversations as we rolled film. Commenting on an actor’s performance, even heckling, offering directors suggestions, stepping to the front of lunch lines to talk to folks, then cutting ahead—this done enough times to confirm, it was a ploy… Normally, this would lead to banishment from our world. However, Gary was under Jen’s wing; an untouchable. He had to go.          Oh, wardrobe. Rather than bring a host of options—extras given a breakdown the night before—Gary mailed it in. Same jeans, polo shirt—snug on his snack-fed belly—and challenging himself, perhaps bring a jacket. Such an annoyance, wardrobe stylists approved his look, not wanting to engage that irksome personality.          Better suited actors hoping to make rent, pay bills, eat, and the carless folks navigating haphazard metro options, were passed over, as Gary raked in check after check. Worse, announcing he’d had multiple avail checks for a single day—necessitating turning down work—how many spots he’d gotten—each one, the equivalent of another paycheck—and booking weekends (double pay)… without any awareness that others were fed up, sharpening knives, cleaning guns, charging tasers… Rather than wait for karma to come around, barely scraping by—Janis Joplin’s line, ‘Freedom’s just another word, for nothing left to lose,’ came to mind—I decided to take matters into my own hands. Howie and Stewie didn’t need convincing.          Hmm… How to bring about Gary’s demise? Stewie and me turned to Howie. A film-noir buff, he’d know a scenario, far enough back, that’d read like a plausible accident.          A clique on set, we openly schemed, sitting in extras holding; this one, a downtown parking lot, under a pop-up tent, urine and vomit smells rampant. And invisible, the resurgent, antibiotic-resistant black plague. Not surprisingly, Gary was already hitting the craft services table, even though the woman there wasn’t fully set up. And he’d just had breakfast. Two helpings. In short, loathsome.          “Well… poison is an option.” My initial thought.          “Crush tablets in his coffee. Easy.” Stewie offered.          “Yeah, no. Where we getting poison?”          “Good point, Howie. Benadryl, or something else in sufficient quantity?” I wanted my idea approved.        “Whatever we do, no Internet searches. That’s Exhibit A.” We all nodded at Stewie’s prescient warning. “Run him over after wrap? Walking to his car? Today.” I felt ambitious. “Stewie could shove him into traffic…” Howie. “Why me?” “You’re the strongest.” While true… I skirted saying, the biggest… a euphemism for fat. And hairy. When Stewie changed shirts, it looked like he was wearing a sweater. “How much time we putting into this?” Stewie ever cautious. “Want to stay off the streets? While providing a public service.” Howie revved up. Two pension credits short of being vested—make a certain amount every year, and you earned one—there was clear motivation. “We’re not getting any younger.” I stated the obvious and most salient fact; age a definite handicap in our business. ***** Jobs grew less frequent. Howie became desperate to act. No Gary, better chance of work. Always wanting to fit in, Stewie stayed on board. But we faced risk and the unexpected. So,  resigned ourselves, contemplated other careers. Howie applied for a post office gig; mail sorter. Stewie ramped up going to swap meets, buying an item for a buck, flipping it on eBay for two. Not mentally equipped to deal with the general public, I’d reached a dead-end; under constant strain. We all were. ***** Safety meetings were mandatory. Before shoots, the 1st Assistant Director addressed the entire production. Walkie-talkies held aloft to broadcast the message. Certain potential hazards highlighted. Don’t pet wild animals. Stay away from cliff edges. And, one in particular: the techno crane, a squat version of the AT-AT’s the Empire employed against the rebels on the Star Wars  snow planet Hoth, featuring a telescoping arm and stabilizing head for the attached camera, allowing freedom of movement through space. Massive, steel plates anchored the base. Extras—movements haphazard—merited repeat warnings not to step in front. Odds were taken, on whether someone would. Never happened. Extras had fainted due to extreme heat, fell—uneven ground, equipment cables—been concussed by collapsed wardrobe racks… While not on the fateful set, word spread rapid-fire amongst the extra community—Gary had been killed. Apparently, giving a soliloquy, after an AD called ‘Action’—the timing perfect—Gary, oblivious, stepped in front of a techno crane and was crushed like a soda can—the arm’s full downward force, the cause. Not the camera end, but extended metal beam. While most looked away, others had the morbid fascination or glee, glimpsing organ soup. There’d be no memorial services. At least nothing organized by the extras. Schadenfreude reigned over Gary’s demise; self-inflicted.          ***** A rare day, we all worked together. Gary’s jobs went to Jen’s new, innocuous boyfriend. And none, had found an alternative way to earn a living. We looked forward to social security—not far off—earning cash subjecting ourselves to medical experiments… While Stewie played a bloated, drowned corpse, Howie and I sipped coffees, watching. “Stewie’s getting put on a lot of jobs...” At the tender age of seven, Johnny was traumatized by not only bad parenting but an overconsumption of sweets, his father running the North American operations of Pez candy. He was born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth on Park Avenue and raised by partially suicidal European eccentrics. Once the money was gone, the lot of them became unglued in different ways. Johnny parlayed a John Donne essay into a scholarship at coveted Bennington College, where he went on to associate with more upper class, anxiety-ridden, somewhat suicidal, vicious eccentrics. Having navigated all aspects of bad behavior from Park Avenue, a small village in rural Vermont, a series of low- to medium-level odd jobs, stint at the Andy Warhol Foundation and ultimately to TV commercial extra work, he’s turned these experiences into short stories.

Charlie Russell sat cross-legged on the seat of his dad’s F-1 pickup, bundled up in his thick coat, his mittens laid on the dashboard. There was an hour or so of daylight left, allowing him to read the latest issue of The Incredible Hulk  while he waited. The monster was taking on General Fang and his communist cronies in the pages of his twelve-cent comic while the truck idled in the icy parking lot of Sheen’s Hardware and Materials. Charlie’s dad was inside the store buying nails. These after-school errands had become a drab tradition over the past month. They started with trips to the concrete plant—two and a half tons of concrete over six trips. One hundred and thirty-five concrete blocks in total. Then, there were trips to the lumber yard. Charlie was dragged along to help load and unload, or maybe just for the appearance of bonding. His dad was deep in his new obsession: the booklet. It contained a list of the materials, diagrams, and building instructions. Build it yourself beneath the floorboards. Preparing for the worst—it’s not just for pessimists anymore.  Charlie and his dad spent afternoons after school picking up supplies and evenings building in the basement. They spent more one-on-one time than ever these days, yet they’d never spoken so little. That was A-OK for Charlie, who didn’t have much to say since August anyway. It was called the “Basement Concrete Block Shelter,” and it was the centerpiece of every sparse phrase or dialogue between the two. The shelter was the third such design outlined in the Family Shelter Designs booklet issued by the Office of Civil Defense. His dad had brought the thirty-page booklet home from the V.F.W. hall just two weeks after Charlie’s mom had passed away from stomach cancer. That was three months ago. It was designed to fit a family of four, but Charlie’s dad made no alterations to the design. When he wasn’t helping haul materials, Charlie was in the basement with his dad, mixing mortar and laying blocks. Dinner was squeezed in somewhere, usually a quick sandwich. Then Charlie would do his homework while his dad continued to build before going to work. The concrete was steps one through five in Dad’s booklet. When he wasn’t pouring and cutting and hammering in the basement, Charlie’s dad sat in the living room watching the news and reading his booklet. It was his scripture.  Charlie was left on a cliffhanger in The Incredible Hulk  when his dad emerged from the hardware store carrying two boxes of nails. He remembered his dad reciting it from the list: two pounds of sixpenny nails and two pounds of sixteenpenny. He loaded them into the bed of the truck, and Charlie folded the comic and stuffed it into his back pocket. He would have to find out later how the Hulk defeated Fang’s paratroopers and won the day. It was never a question of if —just how .  “…help positioning the boards tomorrow,” his dad said, starting the sentence before opening the truck door so Charlie only heard the second half.  He navigated his response carefully. “I was going to spend tomorrow at the lake. We talked about it yesterday.” Charlie’s dad never yelled—not like Mike’s dad. But he did show his disappointment through a particular sigh that was part exhaustion and part defeat. To Charlie, this was somehow worse than yelling. There was no sigh this time, though. As Charlie’s dad pulled the truck out of park, he gave an approving grunt. “I’ll just apply the water repellent to the boards tomorrow, then. Don’t need two people for that.”  Charlie didn’t mask his smile. He hadn’t seen his friends Mike and Stanley outside of school in nearly two weeks—a new record for them. Their time together had been a comfort to Charlie these past few months. They never asked how he was feeling, and they never mentioned his mom. He liked that. That night, Charlie did his homework to the noise of more construction in the basement. When his dad left for his night shift, Charlie stuffed his notes inside a textbook, poured a bowl of cereal, and made his way to the TV in the den. Rawhide  was on, and Rowdy was taking on a pack of wolves that night. Three hours later, Charlie was asleep on the couch as credits ran for The Alfred Hitchcock Hour . The next morning, Charlie met up with Stanley first. Stanley and his mom lived behind the bowling alley just up the hill from the lake. It was the largest body of water in Sojourn. It wasn’t frozen solid yet, but it was getting there. After meeting Stanley in the parking lot of the bowling alley, they walked down together to catch up with Mike, who was waiting for them at the edge of the lake next to the shallow woods. He was skipping rocks along the ice, trying to see if he could reach the center of the lake. He got close a few times. There was a large wooden sign by the embankment that was painted orange with black letters. It read “CAUTION THIN ICE” and “Sojourn Sheriff’s Department.” Charlie and Stanley walked up just as Mike was running out of rocks. The three of them planted elbows on the top of the wooden sign and fidgeted with their coat pockets. Tradition dictated that each boy bring a cigarette. Charlie and Stanley produced theirs first. Mike didn't. “My dad started counting them,” he confessed to the others.  They decided to share. Charlie brought out a book of matches and they lit up—two cigarettes alternating between the three boys after every drag. This immediately spurred a competition, as hangouts at the lake always did. One by one, they each exhaled to see who could create the biggest cloud of breath in the cold air. The warm smoke contrasted against the woods behind them as the boys alternated between coughing and laughing. Charlie lost. Eventually, the boys got tired of standing and sat on the edge of the lake where the ice was thickest. After a comfortable silence, Stanley addressed the others. “Notice anything different?” He touched the tips of his boots together on the dead grass and Mike and Charlie immediately noticed the shine. Stanley’s shoes never shined. “My feet are finally bigger than George’s, so Mom had to get me a pair that’s just mine.”  Stanley had never had an article of clothing in his life that wasn’t first worn by his older brother George. “Mom said these count as my Christmas, though,” Stanley added. “Boots aren’t a Christmas present," Mike argued. “Christmas is for the shit you don’t need.” “Tell that to my mom.” “Did you guys watch Rawhide  last night?” Charlie interrupted. This question was rhetorical, of course. It was always just a matter of time before their conversations turned to their favorite subject, TV. Mostly westerns, but not exclusively. “You think there are wolves round here like the ones Rowdy had to deal with?” Stanley asked the group. “Of course!” Mike asserted. “I even shot one once.” “Bullshit.” Stanley chortled. “Well, my dad did. And I was with him. It was in the woods behind the school.” Charlie hadn’t seen any wolves, but he did hunt deer with his dad. Or, he used to before Mom got sick. A lot had changed since then. Just about the only thing that stayed the same were his hangouts with Stanley and Mike, and their favorite TV shows. Same time. Same channel. Same ol’ Rowdy.  The only thing the boys loved more than Rawhide  was Gunsmoke . Mostly because more people got shot in Gunsmoke . Clint Eastwood’s Rowdy was cool and all, but Matt Dillon didn’t put up with any shit, and he didn’t mind smoking guys who needed to be smoked. Gunsmoke  also had Kitty. It was worth watching just to see her. Over the next two hours, the conversation waxed and waned—their cigarettes long cold. They talked about other shows like Route 66  and Candid Camera , and they talked about school and Ms. Butler and all her goddamn homework. Naturally, the shelter beneath Charlie’s room eventually came up too. How could it not? “Are you gonna be able to watch TV down there?” Mike asked. “I don't think so,” Charlie answered. “The only thing Dad mentioned putting in it is food. Like cans and stuff.”  “Can you play games and stuff in it? It could make a bitchin’ fort.” “Dad said I’m not supposed to use it,” Charlie answered. “Why build it if you’re not gonna use it?” Mike asked.  Charlie didn’t have an answer.  “So what is it this week?” Stanley asked. “Nails,” Charlie said—realizing that this was the last thing on earth he wanted to talk about. He groped for a new subject. Competition was always a safe bet to make the time pass. In the summer months, it was the highest jump in the water from the rope swing, or the fastest sprint along the lakeshore, or the longest held breath underwater. Fall and winter required something new. “What if we see who can go out on the ice the farthest?” Charlie propositioned. “Like Mike’s rocks.” “Rocks are different,” Mike responded. “My dad said I’m not allowed to go out on the ice until it gets colder.” “You wouldn’t last a day in the Old West!” Stanley replied. “I’m in. I’m not chicken.”  This seemed to be enough for Mike, as it usually was. So, Charlie laid out the rules. They would each sit on the edge of the frozen lake with their butts, feet, and palms on the ice. Then, one by one, they would each scoot one foot further from the edge onto thinner and thinner ice. Whoever was brave enough to go the farthest won.  The sun was directly above them when they began to scoot. Round after round, the ice thinned. After seven rounds, the boys were about seven feet out into the frozen lake. It was Charlie’s turn. One foot further. “You can give up now if you want a truce,” Stanley told Charlie—his voice shivering.  Charlie released his palm from the ice and heard a crack. He wiggled forward as the ice began to split beneath him. Two inches more. Then five inches. He continued. The weight of his body produced a crunching sound as it slid along. The other boys shot quick glances at each other and then back at the ice. “Okay, let’s just agree we’re all brave as hell and just go. I’m goddamn starved,” Mike said, offering a way to end with their dignity intact. Charlie thought of the Hulk and Rowdy, and he thought of Kitty. He was nearing eight feet—ahead of Mike by at least nine inches. Would they catch up this round? Doubtful. But he would finish the remaining three inches, and this time he would win. Not if , just how . Charlie worked to accomplish the final movement. The thin ice cracked once more, then again. Finally, there was a violent sound, and the contest was settled. Brandon Clarkson is a writer based in historic Richmond, VA with his wife and several small creatures. In his free time, he finds fulfillment in quiet meditation, good conversation, and uninterrupted creativity. His short fiction has appeared in Marrow Magazine.

All the fucks I give (are so, so  many)   “Look at me,” people say, gesturing empty arms to open air. “Look at all the fucks I give.”   Implying, of course, that the air around them is devoid of fucks; that they give zero.   “Look at me ,” I say in response. “Look at all the fucks I give. Look at them .”   Because they are shining bright enough to blind like radioactive waste in a children’s cartoon because I don’t give zero .   I don’t know how .   I started a pile of fucks very, very young and it tilted over and spilled into the Mariana Trench and still I added until I started worrying about rising sea levels and stopped with that one.   Then I started haphazardly flinging fucks into the night sky until it got too bright for it to still be night and I had to stop doing that, too.   So now I cradle my fucks between my palms, my stack growing ever taller.   My mother asks when I’ll put them down. I need my hands, she tells me. I need to be able to defend myself; I’ve become an open target, just clutching my fucks to my chest so they don’t fall and I can’t see over this ever-growing pile any more and I’m already clumsy and soon I’ll have no choice but to fall ( but I don’t let her know that ).   And I can't answer her, because I don't know how to put them down.   No. Instead, I always manage to balance just one more  on top like the world’s most desperate game of jenga and then one more thing happens and you can bet I’ll give a fuck about that, too, and my god it’s exhausting—   Hope is so fucking exhausting.   But what’s the alternative?   Because I have too much unfinished to be an epilogue yet. Maybe I’m an ellipsis, an em dash, a semicolon— something that says this sentence isn’t over.   And maybe I am more vulnerable, less prepared to protect myself, a few more wounds than most from years of fighting battles I could have ignored, but that same stubborn nature that won’t let that piece of me, deep inside, stop believing in good , that’s a virtue, too, because I am not admitting defeat.   Even if I trip and fall again and again and again.   Even though there are no guarantees. Even if my only shield against yet another fractured bone from clumsy feet and an obstructed view is fragile defiance.   I still give all the fucks. And arduous and painful as it is, I think I prefer it to the alternative.   So, to all of you out there, all of you who spread arms you don’t realize are begging for something to carry if only to soothe a soul too defeated to weep over the fear that it’s grown empty and it doesn’t know what it’s meant to do anymore, then go ahead:   Look at all the fucks I give. Take one of mine. Cavities Published by Dipity Lit Mag,  2024   Just take a minute to be grateful if this morning when you rose, groggy and disoriented, perhaps, you didn’t need glass or silicon hydrogel polymers to see your face unblurred in the mirror.   The cosmos and cesium, the nebulae and nitric acid— yes, they will kill you, and yes, you have no say, and yes,   yes,   yes, you are an overripe wound suffocating under the heel of the overlarge capitalist mosquito who sucks and sucks and sucks and never bleeds you dry but leaves that annoyance, that prick, that itch—   and yes, that is your fate if you believe in fate, and that is your destiny if you believe in destiny, but also: fuck fate. Fuck destiny.   Try to hold, for just a moment, the gratitude that this morning when you woke the same cortisol that runs through your veins poisoning you with epigenetic trauma inherited from the ancestors hunted and slaughtered also gave you, perhaps, the genetics to eat leftover cake for breakfast without worrying too much about cavities.   Or brush well and eat the cake, anyway. It's time to get used to saying, “Fuck you,” and doing exactly as you please. Cry “Girl” Includes excerpt of   “Holy II,” published in  BlazeVOX Journal , 2023   I tire of being human: I wish to be holy. My hands, bless not bruise— my mouth, sing not sin— my heart, unbroken with purpose.   It doesn’t make much difference, though. My time is limited here, and no matter if I bruise or bless, you still spit girl  at me like it’s a foul word.   I wish I were a shapeshifter. In my dreams, I am   wolf,   lion,   beast.   In my dreams, I am born free and unburdened, and no one will deign to underestimate my power, and pretty  will be the least important thing about me.   In my dreams, I shine gold and blind you with goodness. All my mistakes are turned to art, and I race to the cliff’s edge, and hurl myself, unselfconscious, at the stars.   In my dreams, girl  will be my battlecry, and you will cower when I call. Going to be Don Quixote in the end   On that day that I was slammed into a landlocked shipwreck and there was someone crowing on the prow—   well, I didn’t care if it was my dying hallucination and didn’t hesitate before I took their hand, restless and ready for a bad idea: they changed everything.   I knew my destiny I always had  and the sky was such a plain blue that I was already mentally preparing for disaster, so I canonized myself patron saint of tilting at windmills because I’m going to be Don Quixote in the end, anyway.   They touch me like the end is coming, and fast, with their hands rough, with their hands soft, with their hands— and their voice rasps like spilled ashtrays with still-burning cigarette butts as they read my body like braille, my too-pale skin the canvas for their fingerpaint.   They are an enigma, promising me with a wicked laugh that we will find the cosmic significance of it all, then they crash me like a flickering neon orange sign   (VACANCY; NO VACANCY; VACANCY; NO VACANCY)   into heartbreak—   before repenting on their knees and begging forgiveness between my legs.   I'm so absolutely mad over them, but I start to fear waking from these opium dreams, crushed by gravity—   start to wonder if I had gone too far this time—   and our atoms are flickering now and I’m worried this may be the time their wings finally melt and then they tell me to hold on and   crash! slam !   We break  into 1605 and now we’re crossing swords with windmills until they turn to giants and—   suddenly—   I’m—   !— Your damn little red roadster: glimpses of a relationship in haiku   I LOVE YOU. You love me . ​​ Yet neither of us ​ are very good at This. I don’t know if You And Me could ever be a  We, but I do know  that something about your little red roadster  and all those iced coffees  you buy me makes the  FOOLISH, NAÏVE ,  part of my  brain absurdly Hope— Somehow   you can make me believe I'm loved  as much as a Saint's Last Prayer. We’re drinking champagne and whiskey  on your roof and we know We’re In Love. Your arm  is around  my shoulders  and We Never  DEFINE WHAT WE ARE. Chasing toads , skipping stones ;  m y   skin ghost-pale on   y o u r s as          you catch                          my hand. We act as If We’re Holy, though we just ROT to plant food in the end . I'm a Hurricane Manifested and I'll wreck you; still, please , kiss me— So I just   b e g   you to BRUISE ME LIKE DYNAMITE, force me to combust . Your grin (Dark, Hungry) emerges as I   d r a g   b a r e f e e t   across hardwood. I slide my heel down the column of your spine,   and count the vertebrae while your TEETH and TONGUE  Write An Indigo Sonnet on my carotid . I let myself  be The   I c a r u s   to your s u n for the Chance To Fly. To meet Apollo, I risked it all  and got too  close but Still: I FLEW. I WISH we could live happily ever onward , but that's not Our Fate: our stolen time is not enough ; but we pretend  for just One More Day. Always ONE MORE DAY. Just One More. We're not ready. Please   don't   rouse   us   yet. Maia Brown-Jackson is a Pushcart-nominated, award-winning writer whose work has appeared in Across the Margin, Anti-Heroin Chic, Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine, La Piccioletta Barca, Maudlin House, Prime Number Magazine, and others. Her debut poetry collection, And My Blood Sang , was published by Tim Saunders Publications in 2023. Her second collection, Gifted , opens for pre-orders this autumn with Nymeria Publishing. In her spare time, she volunteers with a Yazidi NGO, accidentally starts learning quantum physics when she looks up the qualities of neutrinos for a random poem, and wastes time with the world’s sweetest, clumsiest cat.

You've never known what it felt like to fuck someone like you hate them. She tries her hardest to convince this stranger dressed as a nun that she is not sure she’ll be leaving with you. Like fucking hell. You wonder if Jesus would have fucked Peter with the same bitterness. It might be ironic, the comparison. Denial comes in threes. You haven’t cum once. But Jesus offered unconditional forgiveness, so who the hell are you to hold a grudge? The taste of chocolate and mushrooms lingers on the back of your tongue like the eucharist; sweet, earthy, and hard to swallow. The music from every room shakes the tin walls like an overzealous choir. The nun asks to put her friend's cock in your partner’s mouth. She feels your fingers tighten in her hair at the suggestion. She says to the nun, only if they both do you as well. The idea dies in the air. The heat rushes out of you all at once and you are a boy in a confessional, on your knees for something you don’t believe in. She walks you around the benches and cages of a bondage room labeled a confessional. She tells you about the times she loaded up on cocaine so she could eagerly take beatings from strangers. She asks how you want to fuck her, trying to coax life back into you. Someone fills the room with incense. You stop the tour and put her on her knees, there in the middle of the room. Repentance through action and humiliation. Forgiveness comes as you do. AJ Maiorana is the non-fiction editor for JAKE the Magazine and a recovering catholic. He had work published in Gutslut Press, Bulb Culture Collective, Bullshit Lit, and Mr. Bull Bull. He is a one-time Pushcart Prize nominee.

alone at night, the devil is in the garbage can                        unheard                        and speaking to snow. he’s swinging                 a mardi gras necklace in a midnight that’s only a smile until rain coils like a boomerang and he throws it at the            largest headstone. under grass             is a basement room             closing the sun ‘s eyes for a spell called                    romance and i’ve                    begged my- self not to                look                through telescopes                and see                confusion too   closely as i’d see                a ridge of fear. (stanza break) there is a                love               song happening in any hour that          fresh- ens when new brides haven’t                            lost their smell and the grocery                                    cart’ s  wheel blubbers             on the tiled floor. dawn                                            folds itself                                            with a cockroach hidden in the lazy susan: the bed sighs          like a shrunken head. Livio Farallo is co-editor of Slipstream. His work has appeared in numerous publications in the small-press world.